


The Boy That Couldn't Break

by mozbee



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Good Parents Maggie & Wentworth Tozier, No IT Chapter Two Spoilers, Sad Bill Denbrough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 01:00:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20684879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mozbee/pseuds/mozbee
Summary: “Happy M-m-muh-mother’s—” he stopped when the front door swung shut behind his mother. She didn’t even pause, didn’t even look at him.  He stared at the shut door for a minute, feeling as if all the air in his body had left in a rush. Bill pushed down the ache in his chest and carried on into the kitchen at a more subdued rate. He left the bouquet on the kitchen table, at the seat his mother usually sat at, and stared at the carefully twisted and glued tissue buds. He bit his lip hard enough to break skin, and the blood mixed with the salt on his lips. He angrily drew his sleeve over his eyes and in one fluid motion, slammed his fist on top of the bouquet.





	The Boy That Couldn't Break

Bill set down the tissue paper bouquet, finally satisfied with it. It was a cheery bundle of roses, purple tulips, and daffodils on a bright yellow sheet of construction paper. Most of them looked the exact same and were just different colours, but Bill was still quietly proud of it.

He could hear his mother moving around downstairs, and he jumped to his feet, thinking to make her breakfast, even if it would just be toast and juice, and snatched up the bouquet. Bill hurried down the stairs just as his mother came into the front hall.

“Happy M-m-muh-mother’s—” he stopped when the front door swung shut behind his mother. She didn’t even pause, didn’t even look at him. He stared at the shut door for a minute, feeling as if all the air in his body had left in a rush. Bill pushed down the ache in his chest and carried on into the kitchen at a more subdued rate. He left the bouquet on the kitchen table, at the seat his mother usually sat at, and stared at the carefully twisted and glued tissue buds. He bit his lip hard enough to break skin, and the blood mixed with the salt on his lips. He angrily drew his sleeve over his eyes and in one fluid motion, slammed his fist on top of the bouquet.

“F-f-_fuck_,” he whispered angrily. Two purple flowers stuck to the side of his hand as he withdrew his fist, and he twisted them between his fingers, shredding them and letting them fall to the floor. He went back upstairs to get dressed and burst out the front door, making a beeline for his bike leaning against the side of the house. His father was in the garage, head bent over his workbench.

“I’m g-g-oing o-out,” Bill told his father even though he didn’t ask. His father grunted in response and Bill swung his leg over Silver’s seat and pushed off down the driveway. He sped through his neighbourhood and came to the main street, quiet this early on a Sunday. He was coming up to the drugstore when he saw Richie pacing out front of the store.

“I don’t have two hours, Mr. Keene!” Richie yelled through the front window. He kicked the ledge and turned and saw Bill. “Hey Bill! Can you believe this dickhead doesn’t open til noon?”

Bill cycled over to him, eyeing the front of the pharmacy warily. “H-he might hear you, R-r-richie,” he warned. Richie rolled his eyes.

“Like I give a fuck. He’s probably not even here yet, still at home with his asshole family.”

“S-shh!” Bill hissed, clapping a hand over Richie’s mouth. “Geez, Trashm-m-mouth, what do you n-need so bad anyways?”

“I forgot to get my mom a card for Mother’s day,” Richie shrugged.

“Why don’t you j-j-just make her o-one?” Bill suggested. Richie scoffed.

“Maybe ‘cause I’m not in third grade.” He rubbed the back of his neck and added, “and I can’t draw for shit and I don’t know what to write in a card anyway.”

“’I l-love you’?”

Richie clasped a hand to his heart and fluttered his lashes at Bill. “Why, Mr. Denbrough, I _do_ declare—ow!” Richie rubbed his arm where Bill punched him and glared.

“Sh-shut up and follow me,” Bill ordered.

“My dad only gave me twenty minutes,” Richie pointed out. Bill rolled his eyes and turned his bike around.

“I-it’ll only take two.” Richie cursed and made a big deal out of picking up his bike and riding after him, just like Bill knew he would. They cruised down the street, and Richie slowed behind him when Bill drew to a stop out front of his house. They dropped their bikes on the lawn and Bill lead the way into the kitchen. He grabbed the bouquet he had made off the table and held it out to Richie.

“You can’t keep making gestures of love and not expect me to—don’t hit,” Richie danced out of reach of a fist and grinned.

“G-give her this.” Richie raised his eyebrows and took the paper from Bill.

“Did you make this?” He fingered the bare patch where two purple rosebuds were missing. Bill flushed, suddenly embarrassed. It was so babyish.

“You d-don’t have t-to,” Bill said, and reached to take it back. Richie held it close to his chest.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t. It saves my ass,” Richie shrugged. He looked at Bill curiously. “But didn’t you make it for your mom?”

Bill remembered the front door banging shut and his mouth twisted. “N-n-no,” he said. He needed an excuse to get Richie to leave, because his lower lip had threatened to tremble and give away the hurt in his heart. He should be used to it by now, really; it’d been seven months of dwindling attention from his parents, seven months since they stopped being a family, seven months since Georgie—

“You wanna come over for brunch?” Richie asked suddenly. He looked around the empty kitchen. “Or are you doing something for your mom?”

“No,” Bill said. “I-I mean, we did something last night,” he added quickly. “Anyways, I’m n-n-not hungry, th-thanks.” His stomach chose that moment to announce that it hadn’t been fed yet today, and Bill felt his face heat up.

“Well, one of you is a shitty liar, and I think it’s—” Richie stepped close and flicked Bill’s nose—“not your stomach.” He tapped Bill on the head with the paper bouquet. “Come on. You got nothing else to do, right?”

“I-I g-guess I—" the back door banged opened and Bill jumped. His dad crossed the kitchen to the fridge, tugging the door open and pulling out a water bottle. “Dad, is it o-okay if I-I go to R-R-Richie’s?” His dad jerked his head in an approximation of a nod and walked back out. Bill swallowed to tamp down that sad feeling that asked when his father had last talked to him and turned to Richie. “L-let’s go.” He nudged Richie, who stood with a perplexed frown on his face, looking at the back door. “C-c-come on,” Bill urged, and he reached to tug Richie’s sleeve.

They went back out front and picked up their bikes, and Richie kept one hand on the handlebars and one gingerly holding the paper bouquet. They rode in silence, and Bill could feel Richie’s eyes on him, and he bristled under the attention. It was a ten minute ride to Richie’s house, and they left their bikes in front of the porch and Bill followed his friend inside.

Wentworth and Maggie Tozier were Bill’s favourite adults (and he was a pretty big fan of his grandma). They were endlessly polite, and they let Richie have his space without disregarding him completely: he could go out and do what he wanted so long as it didn’t result in a call from disgruntled neighbours or the police. And he had to be home by curfew without fail every single night. Their house was clean but you could eat in the living room without getting yelled at. When they talked to Bill or Eddie or Stan, they didn’t talk to them like they were dumb kids. But they never swore in front of Richie and his friends. Bill basically liked everything about the Toziers. He was more at ease in their living room, at their kitchen table, than his own; though it had been a few weeks _maybe months_ since Bill had come for dinner. He was too apprehensive about leaving his parents alone in the house for too long; Georgie had disappeared so fast, why couldn’t they? There one minute, and gone the next, leaving behind an imprint in the sand that fades with tide and time, until there is just a dull ache with no real meaning.

“Greetings, loyal citizens!” Richie called as he and Bill entered the house. “I have returned with a companion most loyal to join us in our feast!”

“I said it was a bad idea to let him watch _Blackadder_,” Bill heard Wentworth Tozier say from the kitchen. Richie’s mother laughed and spoke over her shoulder as she came to greet Richie and Bill.

“You fought me on it.” She turned to face them and smiled broadly. “Bill! It’s good to see you.”

“Y-you too, Mrs. To-Tozier,” Bill managed. Richie thumped past his mother after kicking his shoes off.

“Where’s the grub, pa?” Richie demanded loudly. “I was expectin’ me a fine spread—” his voice grew muffled and Bill heard low, snorting laughs from the kitchen.

“Maggie, please come in so we can eat and our son can focus on eating.” Bill and Maggie shared a grin that sent a pang through his heart. She had such kind eyes.

Brunch was an enjoyable affair; Richie insisted on telling the tale of John Little busting his lip during dodgeball and Wentworth and Maggie retaliated by sharing tales of their first date, first kiss, and Richie gagged and covered his ears, and Bill watched it all with a grin on his face, even as inside he felt a new section shattering, lifting to dry dust, a creaking in his soul that reverberated to the heavens. He had never been so envious in his life.

Later, when the egg salad sandwiches and cucumber slices, the cheese and crackers were devoured, they all sat in the living room and Maggie was presented with gifts from her boys, a simple bracelet with a jade pendant from Wentworth, and a bottle of what looked like very cheap perfume from Richie. She received them both the same, and kissed both her husband and son on the cheek as thanks, and then Richie shoved the tissue paper bouquet at her.

“Oh,” Maggie said, looking down at the art in her lap. She reached and gently touched the petals on paper. “This is beautiful.” Bill fought back the tiny smile that threatened at the praise.

“Bill made it,” Richie blurted suddenly. Bill gave Richie a startled look.

Maggie’s face lit up and she smiled over at Bill, and looked back down at the bouquet with renewed interest. “It’s a very creative idea, Bill. I love it. It’s so bright.”

“We don’t let Richie use glue because he has a habit of eating it—hey!” Wentworth caught the pillow chucked at him by an indignant Richie.

“_Once_ I ate the glue. Once,” he said to Bill, eyes wide. Bill grinned and then suddenly became aware of a sweet scent, like roses at the ocean, and he looked up as Maggie leaned down and wrapped him in a hug.

Bill went stiff in her arms as she said, “Thank you Bill. You’re a good friend to Richie and you’re a sweet boy.” He held his breath as she gave him one light squeeze then pulled back. He felt…hollow, when she pulled away, like she had tugged everything away with her when she stepped back. Maggie looked at him and frowned. “Are you okay?”

He was mortified to find his eyes brimming with tears seconds from spilling over. “S-s-sorry,” he stuttered out, and he squeezed past her, heart hammering in his chest, ears burning and his vision blurry.

“Bill?” he heard Richie call after him, but he didn’t stop. He gasped when he knocked against the doorframe and he heard something slide down the wall, and he winced when he heard glass break.

“I-i-I’m s-s-sorry,” he muttered, and he turned and dropped to his knees and tried to pick up the biggest chunks of the broken picture frame. A tear rolled down his nose and splashed onto the broken glass in his hands. He jumped when a hand came to rest on his shoulder, and his finger was sliced open. “Uh-uh-ow,” he hissed. Maggie was pulling him to his feet, and gingerly took the broken glass out of his hands, passing it to Wentworth who hovered behind her with a trashcan and a worried look.

“It’s okay, Bill,” Maggie told him. “Let me see your hand. Please.” She gripped his wrist and gently pulled his hand towards her, then smiled up at him. “It’s pretty shallow. Follow me into the kitchen, we’ll wash it and I’ll get you a bandaid.”

Bill shook his head, wanting to leave, to be done with this embarrassment. He was making an idiot of himself and he knew it. What would Richie think of him now, seeing him cry all over his house like this? “I-I ha-have to g-go h-h-home, I can d-do it.”

Maggie smiled at him and led him into the kitchen. “I don’t want to send you home hurt, sweetheart—” and Bill’s heart clenched in his chest, because his mother used to call him sweetheart, used to wake him up running a hand through his hair and saying _time to get up, sweetheart_ and kissing his eyelids until he opened them and wrapped his arms around her neck and tried to pull her onto the bed, and sometimes she would let him and they’d poke and pinch each other, laughing loud enough to wake Georgie—

Bill didn’t even realize he had stopped walking until he felt steady fingers in his hair, and a warm hand on the back of his neck, holding him pressed close to a sturdy figure while he sobbed, and he hugged back, and cried harder when he was held tighter. It had been so, so long since anyone had held him like this, made him feel loved like this, and he ached with the absence of it, with the want for it. But murderers don’t get love, boys who get their little brothers killed don’t get to be loved, hugged and held.

He tried to apologize again, knowing he was in the way, ruining everyone’s day, but Maggie gave him a little shake. “Shh,” she soothed, and rubbed circles in his back. “You’re okay, Bill, you’re okay, don’t be sorry…”

They stayed like that for longer than Bill would like to guess before he was finally able to lift his head from her shoulder. He felt guilt twist in his stomach at the sight of the dark patch on Maggie’s shoulder. “I’m s-sorry,” he said quietly, pulling back. Maggie let him go, seeming reluctant.

“Don’t ever apologize for your feelings, Bill,” she said quietly. She reached a hesitant hand out and, when he made no move to stop her, brushed a trail of tears from his cheek with her thumb. “Come on,” she said softly, taking his uninjured hand, and he allowed himself to be pulled into the kitchen. Richie was in there with his dad, eyes huge behind his glasses.

“What’s wrong, Bill?” he asked, sounding freaked out. Bill shook his head but didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, couldn’t say _my parents blame me for what happened to Georgie, they don’t even look at me anymore, and I’m scared because they’re right, it’s my fault—_ all words he had had playing in his head for seven months, stuck there on an endless loop of hateful vitriol. Until now, because apparently all those words he couldn’t say, he had just said out loud to the Tozier family.

Maggie gasped as if she’d been struck, and Wentworth was frowning, looking too much like Richie. But Richie was the one who spoke, as always.

“That’s bullshit.”

“Richie,” Wentworth berated half-heartedly. Richie glared up at his father, pushing his glasses further up his nose.

“It _is_ bullshit,” he insisted. He turned to Bill. “It wasn’t your fault, what happened to Georgie. That was a fucked-up accident—”

“I d-d-didn’t go with h-him,” Bill said. He tugged his hand out of Maggie’s, he hadn’t even realized she was still holding it. The weight on his shoulders, the weight he had carried for seven months, grew heavier. “I-I-I sh-should’ve g-g-gone with him, t-then he w-w-would still b-be—”

“Why didn’t your parents go with him?” Richie challenged, but it was gentle, an effort to help alleviate the guilt that Bill carried, that Bill deserved.

“B-b-because he asked _m-m-me_!” Bill snapped, chest heaving. “A-and I l-l-lied and said I w-wa-was sick—” _why can’t you come with me, billy, _I’m sick Georgie, I can’t go outside, and as soon as Georgie was out of sight of the front window, his raincoat bright in the dreary daylight, Bill sat at his desk and went back to work on his drawing, Marty McFly behind the wheel of the Delorean. He hasn’t looked at that picture in seven months.

Richie and his parents were quiet, and Bill felt the all-too familiar swell of guilt rise inside him, for being dramatic, for being in the way. He needed to go home, back to his bedroom, where he could sit and feel how he wanted without annoying anyone. What were they going to think of him now, knowing he could have saved Georgie if he hadn’t been so selfish? Because every night, Bill sneaks into Georgie’s room, and he shuts the door quietly behind him, so his mother wouldn’t know he had gone in and get upset again _his cheek burns from where her hand landed, a sharp slap that startled more than hurt, and her mouth is a twisted line as she tells him not to go in that room again_ and he bites his lip and stares at the empty bed, untouched for seven months, and he swears that he’ll find him, but that fire that has been burning in him for seven months, that sparked when the police came to their house one day after Georgie had been missing to say no leads yet, it was starting to dwindle. Bill was losing hope, and in that, he failed Georgie a second time.

“Bill.” He looked up, slow to come back from the fog, and saw he was sitting at the kitchen table with Maggie, the remains of brunch packaged and stacked neatly at one end, a jar of fresh flowers at the other. Maggie pushed a tissue box towards him, a silent offering.

Bill looked around the kitchen. It was so quiet. “W-w-where’s R-Richie?” Maggie smiled.

“Out back with his dad. I thought maybe you and I could talk. If you want.” Bill felt tense, and tired.

“I’m s-s-sorry I r-ruined your day,” he said, and kept his gaze fixed on his shoes.

“You didn’t,” she said simply. “But I’m worried about you.”

“Y-you d-don’t have to b-be,” Bill said but she shook her head and he fell quiet.

“You’ve been in Richie’s life, in _our_ lives, for five years. I know you, Bill Denbrough, at least as much as a parent can know their child’s friends. And I’m sorry, that I’ve failed you.” Bill felt his eyes widen, and his heart thumped. What was she talking about, failing him? “I was too quick to dismiss your suffering since Georgie went missing. I thought,” and she sounded sad, “that by not asking you about it, not talking about it, would help, but I was wrong. I see that now.”

Bill shrugged, unsure of what to say to that. He wasn’t her responsibility. She wasn’t his mother.

Maggie watched him for a moment, twisting the small silver cross hanging around her neck between her fingers, then asked, “how are your parents?”

“F-f-fine,” he replied without thought. It wasn’t like he knew any different, anyway. They didn’t talk to him about anything important.

Maggie nodded, but he knew she didn’t believe him. “I imagine it must be hard, to live with their grief and yours.”

“G-g-georgie’s n-n-not— he’s n-n-n-not—” Bill couldn’t say the word, couldn’t give it even a wisp of attention, in case—in case—

“He’s missing,” Maggie said quietly, “that’s something to grieve for.” Bill nodded jerkily. “Are things—” she paused, unsure how to ask, “all right, at home? I mean, I know they aren’t all right, not really, not the way things were but…do your parents take care of you?” She winced, as if she hadn’t expected to be so blunt.

Bill shrugged. “Th-there’s groceries,” _meat he doesn’t know how to cook so he makes mac and cheese and eats cold hot dogs, peanut butter sandwiches packed in a plastic shopping bag for school lunch unless there is no bread so he just grabs whatever fruit is in the fridge._

“I don’t just mean that,” Maggie said, and her eyes looked sad. Bill looked at her, and at the kitchen around him, at the coffee cup next to the sink, the pictures on the fridge, the card Wentworth had given her for Mother’s day, and for once he didn’t think.

“M-my p-p-p-parents don’t l-l-love me any-m-more.” Maggie shook her head, looking sorrowful, but Bill didn’t give her a chance to speak. “Ever s-s-since G-G-Georgie went m-missing, they d-d-don’t l-l-look at me. They don’t t-t-talk to me,” and he was mortified when his vision blurred again but he kept his chin up, talking to Maggie’s left shoulder. “I ca-can’t talk t-to them either, th-they ignore m-me, they don’t c-c-care that I m-miss Georgie t-too, s-s-so mu-much—” his chest is heaving but he plunged on—“a-a-and I ca-ca-can’t even t-t-t-talk to anyone about h-h-him, m-my pa-parents g-get m-mad a-a-and my fr-friends d-d-don’t know what to s-s-say or do—” he shot out of his chair and stood with his back to Maggie, eyes fixed on the picture hanging on the wall across from him, a five-year-old Richie beaming back at him. “I do-don’t know what I-I-I’m su-supposed to do to he-hel-help.”

“You’re not supposed to do anything, Bill,” Maggie sighed, but it wasn’t one of those ‘I’m fed up with your emotions so please stop’ sighs that his father heaved once a week; instead it ached. “What could you do to help? What do you think you should be doing?”

That was easy, and Bill was pleased that he had an answer for her. “S-s-s-stop crying a-al-all the time. Find G-G-Georgie and br-bring him h-home.” He waited a moment, worried his lip between his teeth, then decided to say it: “B-b-be the s-s-son my parents d-d-deserve in-in-stead of a, a…b-burden.”

Bill didn’t flinch at the hand on his shoulder, not this time. “You are not a burden,” Maggie said, and her voice is steady. “You are a child who is missing his brother. You are a boy who needs his parents’ love, and guidance, but they’re suffering too much to see that.” Bill allowed himself to be turned to face her. “Your parents are hurting—” and Bill saw her eyes flick out to the backyard, where Richie and his father half-heartedly toss a ball back and forth—“and on some small level, I can understand that. But you still need to be looked after, sweetheart,” and this time, when his lip trembled, so did Maggie’s, and Bill doesn’t feel as silly for his, “and if your parents, God bless them, are struggling with that, then I want you to know that I am here for you. We all are. And I bet you have a lot more people in your corner than you think.”

“I…” he trailed off. His heart was clenched in his chest.

“Richie misses him too,” she added, and Bill blinked.

“H-he does?” They didn't really talk about it. Bill didn't like the look in his friends' eyes when he brought up Georgie. She nodded.

“We talk about Georgie a couple times a week. I know Richie had a hard time at the start, he didn’t really understand what happened, but you know what? He would say to me, “Bill needs me.” And I knew he was right, but I wish I had known more.”

“It’s n-n-not your pr-pr-problem,” Bill pointed out.

“It’s not a problem,” Maggie said softly. “You’re not a problem to be solved. You’re a boy, Bill. And you’re allowed to ask for help, to need something.” A heavy silence permeated the air, the two of them choked with palpable emotion. “Can I hug you?”

Bill felt his insides twist as he thought of how good it felt to be held by her before. He didn’t want to ask, but then she offered, so… “Y-y-yes,” he said, and once again he was held in loving arms, and he allowed himself to bury his face in her shoulder, and inhale a scent so motherly he could feel the acute loss of his parents’ love.

“You come here whenever you want, Bill,” she said, and her hands on his back were solid, comforting. “Even if it’s three in the morning, or someone’s birthday, or Richie just ate some more glue—” they both chuckle slightly at that—“you come here. You are always welcome, no matter what. All right?”

Bill felt the warmth encircling him. He felt Maggie’s heartbeat, and every breath she took. He thought of how bright Richie’s smiles were, his easy relationship with his parents, and how coming here felt like coming home even before Maggie hugged him like this. He inhaled deeply, and nodded against her shoulder.

“All right.”

And he didn’t even stutter.

**Author's Note:**

> I just love sad bill. that's the only reason i'm here. also i love reddie.  
ETA: I uploaded this at butt o'clock in the morning and it was definitely not supposed to be called The Tissue That Couldn't Break lmao so now I fixed it and yeah.


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